


The Master of All Men

by Ponderosa



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, POV Multiple, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrion takes Sansa out from under Cersei's nose in the hopes of stopping a war. The king's dog is sent to reclaim her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Master of All Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkasrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkasrain/gifts).



> Inkasrain, I didn't know if you were at all familiar with book canon, so I didn't want to risk spoiling anything, but given the pairing I suspect you are, so I did sneak in some of the choice bits. I went primarily off Season 1 TV canon to be safe, so it's an alternate timeline at heart. I also had no idea what flavor of Sansa/Sandor you liked, so I hope this works for you!

Sansa

The fine hairs at the nape of Sansa’s neck prickled as she found herself under the scrutiny of the King. Joffrey had rounded the corner with two white-cloaked Kingsguard at his side, his pace unhurried and a bit of swagger in his stride. Likely having come from breaking his fast, Sansa hoped the meal had put Joffrey in a favorable mood. He stopped a few yards away in the deep shadow of a pillar and granted her a smile that would have once melted her like honey. She knew the bow of his mouth to be a lie, one as false as the promise to never be cruel to her. The smile she gave in return was equally false, and her stomach soured when a quiver to her lips broadened Joffrey's to a grin. Towering behind him stood Ser Boros and Ser Sandor, by turns the worst and best of his guard in her esteem. As her gaze travelled to meet the Hound's, her smile sought to return. Sandor treated her fairly if not always kindly.

She lowered her gaze to the floor before she displayed any genuine happiness in Joffrey's presence. Gathering her skirts, she executed a stiff curtsey and did her best to greet him properly.

“Out wandering the halls?” Joffrey squared his shoulders as if it would grant him proper height on her. “I don’t think it’s safe for a traitor’s daughter to be going about unaccompanied.”

She could remind Joffrey that she was not permitted to be alone outside the godswood, and that the guardsman who stood at attention hardly a stone’s throw away was her escort, but it would only make Joffrey angry. To invoke his wrath this early in the day would be disastrous.

“Shall I return to my prayers, your grace?”

“To your apartments, I’d say, by the shadows under your eyes. You look a mess.” Joffrey’s lip curled, and Sansa’s fingers followed suit. Sandor noticed the shift in her posture, his chin lifting and the hair falling away from his face. He looked down his nose at her with his dark, fearsome eyes though she feared Ser Meryn more. Joffrey had yet to ask the Hound to beat her, and Meryn seemed to enjoy striking her and leaving bruises none could see. With some effort, Sansa relaxed and pretended as if Joffrey and his brutal lackey didn’t make her heart swell black and bitter.

“As you would have it, your grace. I shall retire and hope my face grows more pleasing in the morning.”

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed slightly as if he expected she'd hidden a thorn in her softly worded response. If she had, he'd be too stupid to know it, she thought viciously. She immediately regretted the thought, no matter how horrible Joffrey was, and waited with a stopped heart to see if he might have his man strike her for an imagined slight. He merely gestured to Sandor and fixed his attention to some distant spot beyond her, treating her presence now as if she were as invisible as a servant. “Make sure the _lady_ gets plenty of sleep, dog. I don’t want her to keep on this way or she’ll start to look as ugly as you.”

Sandor didn’t even blink at the insult; Joffrey’s taunt had passed straight through him, as insignificant as air. Sansa supposed that he must be used to people calling him ugly, as she’d thought no different the first time she saw his scars and the ruin of his ear. She had no such defense as she'd been praised for her fairness since an infant, and she had yet to grow numb to the names and the dark looks that now passed her way so readily.

“Come on,” Sandor said, stepping around Joffrey to grip Sansa by the arm. His fingers indented her flesh where they circled her arm, and she stumbled as he jerked her forward. Just as quickly as he’d pulled her off-balance, he steadied her, and she wondered at his tone as he said, “You heard the king, girl. We're to spend the day in bed.”

Joffrey leered, likely amused by the thought of someone so hideous bedding her, and Sansa went unresisting. The Hound did not loose his hold on her the entire walk back to her apartments. Once inside, he didn't touch her again, and though he kept a post by the door and watched her whether she toyed at reading or passing a comb through her hair, she found that she felt less on edge than she had in days. She could hardly relax fully though, as her blood sang in her veins with the constant attention. When the day waned, a new restlessness stirred in her as she reclined on her bed in the sight of a man not of her own blood, and heat crept into her cheeks as she considered that Joffrey might honestly expect that the Hound would have taken his pleasure in her. She curled onto her side before Sandor could see her colour rise more sharply and her breath quickened when the heat slid lower. Though she lay there clothed, he watched her still, only now she couldn't dart a glance to catch where his attention rested. Her entire body tingled and she found herself imagining where he might touch her if he did seek to have her, but eventually her weariness surpassed those fancies, and she slept deeply and dreamlessly.

*

Tyrion

Cersei was rarely pleased to see Tyrion though she concealed the fact far better than their lord father. She was less inclined to indulge him without Jaime about to draw her attention. Tyrion had little defense without his brother around to soothe Cersei's temper and roll onto his back to let her ride him into the sheets. She was to put it bluntly, more of a bitch than usual. She was as furious about the news of his acquired post as he was dismayed, and he sought to turn her anger to his advantage. The more she wished him out of her sight and miles away, the better the chance he had at maneouvering himself into that precise situation.

“I’ll get our brother back wihout a great deal of unnecessary bloodshed,” he said, and gauging the severity of Cersei’s frown, added swiftly, “The quicker the kingdom returns to peace, the quicker I can cease bearing all this tedious responsibility upon my shoulders.”

Shifting at her seat at a small writing desk, Cersei faced Tyrion fully. “Sansa is our only bargaining piece and you want to steal her away.”

Tyrion helped himself to a pitcher, pleased to find it heavy with wine. As he availed himself of a goblet to fill, he studiously avoided meeting Cersei's gaze. The slightest hint of a challenge and she'd turn as stubborn as a new mule with a cart. “What I want is to secure my nephew’s throne and return my brother to where he belongs. Simple desires, really." He drank deeply and noisily, as much to remind Cersei of what he truly hoped for—wine, women, and no duties to speak of—as he did to enjoy the warmth of a fine red coursing down his throat. "There remains few benefits in marriage now. If you throw the Stark girl back to her mother, the North will lose its teeth and you’ll be free to turn Joffrey’s eye to a prettier flower. The promise of a king more likely to sire an heir may open roads seemingly closed.”

Tyrion drained his cup a second time while Cersei thought things over. She was always loathe to give up anything she believed would give her an edge, but the cold of her bed might just be enough leverage to have her agreeing with Tyrion’s plan.

Not that he was enough of a gambler to truly wait for the Queen’s say in the matter. He was the Hand of the King, even if he planned on shirking his duties for a while yet, and for such an ill-omened title it did grant him quite a bit of sway. His dear sister would soon discover Sansa was gone before Tyrion himself had excused himself, but as he planned to rejoin Bronn and Shae outside the city walls and not waste a single night here in the city, they’d be out of reach of her immediate wrath. If he succeeded in bringing Jaime back, her forgiveness could be won.

“Do whatever it takes,” Cersei said, and turned back to her letters.

Tyrion left the goblet wobbling on the ledge. “Always.”

*

Sansa

When they’d travelled from Winterfell to King’s Landing, the string of men and horses had stretched farther than Sansa could have imagined. The pace had been slow to accommodate the Queen’s wheelhouse and supply wagons, and Sansa had been as excited as she was anxious. The days had seemed tortuously long with so many miles to go and little experience of how distance translated into time.

On the road once more, she could judge distance no better. King’s Landing was five days behind, but with only four riders and four horses, they travelled far more swiftly than a creaking old wheelhouse. The first night, Tyrion’s man Bronn let her remain mounted as he helped his lord from his horse and Sansa had sat still as an owl. She'd willed her legs to move, her mind alive with the thought of fleeing into the woods, but she couldn’t find the nerve.

Mid-afternoon the day following, the chance was given to her again, and she could hardly believe herself when her body jolted and she hauled on the reins. She rode hard away from the road until the trees grew thick together and a heavy branch nearly knocked her to the ground. Slowed but unwilling to try and make her way on foot alone, Bronn had found her in the span of an hour. He’d chuckled as he led her back. His derisive smirk cut just as cruelly as the gravelly sound of his laughter the second and third times she’d tried to steal away.

As the dark closed in again and her captors pitched camp, she stood with the horses but gave little thought to running. _Next time, I’ll spank you with a bit of steel like the brat you are._ She'd be lucky to make even a mile before the gathering chill was more threat than the flat of Bronn’s blade. Sansa lay her cheek against her mare and stroked a hand rhythmically down the column of its neck. She wished for soft fur beneath her palm, thick and silken, and a gentle lick at her wrist, but if it were Lady she leaned upon for support, she wouldn’t need to fear the cold or Bronn’s sharp eyes. She could run into the night and Lady would lead her to someone who would take her home.

With wetness in her eyes, Sansa watched as Bronn, Tyrion, and even his whore helped with the camp, quickly sorting the utensils for supper and then sleep. Everything from the fire to the bedrolls to the dully clanging tin pot was crude and efficient, and Sansa hated it all. Only the promise of hot coals gave her something to look forward to as twilight’s icy touch crept in through the ugly boy’s clothes they’d smuggled her from the city in. It was as if they sought to bury her in humiliation, forcing her to hide her hair—now a tangled mess—beneath a ratty old cap, and to listen day after day as they made up lies designed to give her hope.

According to Tyrion they were headed to the North and he promised more than once that she would not regret the journey. Sansa always nodded when he said as much, just as she did when Joffrey told her he was sorry that she made him do horrible things. She wouldn't believe the Imp, whose schemes were as twisted as his body. Septa Mordane had warned her of it, quietly, back when the Lannisters had first come to Winterfell. A lady mustn’t ever speak ill, Septa Mordane had added, her words meant to be heeded and not repeated, reminding Sansa that a lady’s kind words were what kept men true.

Sansa’s breath shuddered painfully and she wondered if any kindness was left inside her. She certainly did not feel much like a lady anymore, and hadn’t truthfully since between one thought and the next contemplated regicide and suicide. The road had only brought the stain she felt beneath her skin to the surface. Coated in filth, she knew she must reek of horse and sweat, and the sharp stink of woodsmoke waited only to be refreshed.

She hardly felt human, less so even away from Joffrey’s basilisk gaze. She had become a doll carved of wood, hollow in the center and light as a feather, her expression painted on with a sullen line for a mouth. Worse, it was impossible to guess whether she was better off here, stolen away by the Imp with only the promise of a beating if she ran, or if Joffrey’s foul mood and cruel temperment would have eased had she stayed.

Certainly he seemed to have treated her more pleasantly, and she had been struck less frequently and with less severity. Lately he'd sent the Hound to fetch her more often than not, and Sandor never lay a hand on her. Sandor watched her keenly when he had liquor on his breath, and even when he did not drink himself to slurring, the weight of his dark gaze lit a small fire in the low of her belly when leveled her way. The man was a puzzle to her. He called her stupid for insisting that knighthood meant something beyond a title, and yet he'd honorably defended Ser Loras at the tourney and gone so quickly to his knee at the word of the king. Sandor was hardly a knight like in stories, and his words were sharp as a lash with no sugar to coat them, but better his scorn draw a blush than the strike of gauntlet draw blood.

She took some solace in that the Hound mocked her just as he did the rest of the court, having treated her the same before and after her father had been clapped in irons.

No, she thought, as the sky went from deep blue to black and the fire became impossible to resist, Sandor did treat her differently. In a fleeting moment, he'd told her what Littlefinger had whispered into her ear at the tourney, and the truth of the story burned as fiercly in Sandor's eyes as the fire that had disfigured him. He had brought Sansa into his confidence though he certainly would not have if he'd been right-minded. She treasured the moment no matter how it had terrified her at the time. Even if he was not beautiful as Ser Loras was, he had a nobleness to him. Joffrey’s other knights were the true dogs, licking and whining at the scraps offered to them.

Sansa ate what was given to her, and settled onto her bedroll, sitting with her knees to her chest and her back to the thin hide strung up for a bit of protection against the wind. She closed her eyes as Tyrion moved to be with his woman, a part of her still shocked that he’d be so coarse though he'd done so each night and once even during the light of day. Fervently, Sansa imagined that instead of the Imp’s men coming to her room to spirit her away, that it had been the Hound. Surely no one would’ve been brave enough to follow, and with his sword to protect her, they’d be more than halfway to the Wall by now.

A delicate shiver ran along her spine as she thought of Sandor here with her, and how she might be warm and safe if she could lean against him. He was tall and built thickly, the breadth of his chest from muscles borne of use and not draped in fat like the old king had been. Parts of her body tingled and tightened, and she sucked in a quick breath when a soft sound from Tyrion's woman made her own toes curl reflexively.

If they truly were going north, Sansa thought, seeking to fix her mind on a subject less conflicting, perhaps a bannerman would come to her aid. The Tullys had far-reaching influence in the Riverlands, and she had her mother’s colouring. If even some of the talk she'd heard in the past days was true, she might find sympathy, and with sympathy could come lodgings, a hot bath, a proper dress, and a fine comb to make herself presentable once more.

The lewd sound of Tyrion taking pleasure with his whore quieted abruptly, and Sansa cautiously raised her head as she felt attention on her. Bronn crept towards her, his balance held low to the ground. Her heart seized to think he might try and seek liberties while his lord rutted shamelessly only yards away.

Bronn put a finger to his lips to warn her to keep silent, and it was then that she saw he had a long knife in his grip and was looking not at her but into the darkness beyond. “Halfman,” he said in a hushed tone, “your sword is at the ready but best take hold of your axe in its stead. We’re not alone.”

The sting of fear that had turned Sansa’s muscles from water to stone pierced her more deeply. Never had the dark seemed so much like ink, so impossible and infinite. Her eyes searched the blackness beyond the fire while Bronn did the same. To her horror, his attention returned always to somewhere behind her.

Terror ate past her dislike of the man, and she bolted towards Bronn. He stood and caught her around the waist, shoving her behind him. She found herself placed so near the fire the heat was unbearable against her leg and she crowded as close as she could behind him and endured the pain.

With no more reason to feign a lack of alert, Tyrion circled to them, his woman close behind. Mercifully he hadn’t questioned Bronn’s advice and Sansa saw that his breeches were laced and his axe gripped tightly. Though she couldn’t imagine him in a fight, a mild ripple of relief passed through her. A heartbeat later the relief fled as her ears caught the sharp sound of scuffling footsteps through a crisp litter of leaves.

“A beast?” Tyrion asked.

Sansa glanced sharply at him. Since crossing the river, she’d heard the howling too, so far and so faint that she’d thought it nothing more than echoes of the past. Lady had rarely made a noise louder than a whuffling yip, but Sansa had dreamed of the sound back in Winterfell and it was etched into her memory, full-throated and haunting. Just the thought of it stirred her grief and made her want to open her mouth and let her own cry pour forth.

“Could be, but this one’s got two legs, not four,” Bronn said, and as if his voice had summoned it, a figure staggered into view, wild-haired and scowling.

All thoughts of howling to the sky vanished and Sansa covered her mouth with her hands. She bolted forward, tripping over her own legs. Bronn caught her again with one strong arm and pinned her tight to his side.

“Don’t,” he said, and seemed confused when she struggled to go forward instead of away. He crushed her painfully in his grip and Tyrion oustretched a hand in warning.

“Be wise and take a closer look at the girl,” Tyrion said, and Sansa could tell by the quiet caution in his voice that he recognized that it was no nameless child but her sister who stood bound at the edge of the shadows.

*

Sandor

It took a threat and a hard shove, but Eddard Stark’s brat child had gone to the length of the rope, near enough that Tyrion could see that it was looped around her skinny neck and that her arms were tied behind her. He tightened his grip around the tether as Tyrion took a step forward. He wouldn't put it past the girl to try and slip the loop now, the crafty little whelp.

The Imp raised a hand to his mouth. “A crime to hunt wolves here in the King’s lands,” he called out. “But a greater crime perhaps to keep one leashed like a boy does a dog. On my word we’ll speak fairly if you release her now.”

Sandor’s mouth twisted vaguely upwards. Until this moment, he had thought it likely more trouble than it was worth to catch the girl and her new playmate. It'd been troublesome as devils to be sure, but he’d thought rightly that Tyrion might be sharp-witted enough to not only know who came hunting but the value of what was offered.

Sandor kicked the boy who knelt gagged beside him. “Up,” he said. The wound on the boy’s forehead bled sluggishly. There’d been more fight in this one than the brat’s last playmate. And of anyone it would be Tyrion who was clever enough to see straight away what it took the last two Hands too long to discover.

“A fair trade for the first, and a hefty purse for this one,” Sandor said, shoving the boy to stumble forth and stand next to the younger Stark girl. “I won’t ask twice and my second offer will be half as generous.” He moved behind the pair, winding the slack of the rope around his hand as he went. He held his blade up poised to strike mercifully enough. He measured the Imp’s new sellsword with a keen eye. It would be a good fight if it came to that, though while Tyrion could rarely hold his tongue, he’d always had a clear preference to avoid conflict.

Tyrion passed his axe to a woman and started forward with his arms raised. “If you’ll permit me to inspect the goods before I make my decision.”

Sandor let stillness speak for him, and fixed his gaze on Sansa. She looked thin in the mercenary’s arms, easy to break though she’d proven herself remarkably sturdy under Joffrey’s attentions. Her long hair was a mess of tangles, not sleek as it'd been in King's Landing when she'd done it up all twined and wound with ribbons that begged for a bit of rough handling. Sandor had touched it twice, felt it slip like silk through his fingers and once beneath his palm when the girl had seemed to lean into his hand. No matter the streaks on her face or the knots in her hair, she was still a pretty thing. More fierce than even he gave her credit for as she struggled mightly as soon as she saw Tyrion honestly considering the idea of a trade.

“Two for one is very generous, and I suspect you won’t take a sum for all three,” Tyrion wondered aloud as he studied the captives. Sandor didn’t care to play those sorts of games and readied his arm to skewer the boy through. Tyrion's attention arrowed in on the boy, and Sandor felt it in his bones that the Imp wouldn’t condemn the child's life for something so easily promised as Lannister gold.

“Bronn, kindly bring the lady Sansa here." Tyrion moved to retreive the boy, tugging him forward by the front of his shirt. He twisted to look up at Sandor, and Sandor knew that if the Imp had been born with the same grace of limb as his brother Jaime, there would be no bargains or gold to be won. Tyrion's gaze passed to Sansa, who stared open-mouthed at him in return. "Deliver her safely to her king and my word you’ll have your coin, Hound. You'll have from the current Hand as much as you won in honor of the last.”

And with that promise won, Sandor threw the tether to Tyrion’s man and found Sansa dumped unceremoniously before him. Sansa’s sister was pulled away before they could embrace, and Sandor didn’t lower his blade as he offered a hand to help Sansa rise. “Come with me and don’t run,” he warned her, and hid his surprise when she listened.

He drew her away, into the woods where he’d left his horse. She stumbled in the darkness, and each time he helped right her, she stayed close to him, the heat of her body flush against him. It took longer to walk with her so near, but Tyrion wouldn’t renege on his word, and he could enjoy the thought of her sweet, gentle curves pressed against skin and not armor.

*

Sansa

Sansa rode perched on the saddle behind Sandor, her arms slung around his waist. His cloak was heavy around her shoulders, clasped awkwardly at her throat. His armor had long since warmed to her body and it was almost pleasant as the sun crept into the sky. Still, they were going back, away from Arya, away from any promise of home. “Let me go,” she pleaded, finally finding a voice.

“If I did, where would you fly off to?”

She had no answer. The scatter of thin trees creaking and groaning in the breeze raised gooseflesh on her skin. Even if there was little solace to be found in his strength, she found herself curling tighter against Sandor’s broad back. Her cheek pressed flat against his armor. She could feel the bellows of his lungs expanding with the same slow rhythm of the horse's plodding walk. “Anywhere away from Joffrey. I hate him.”

“Come to realise you truly are a terrible liar did you, girl? And now you think the truth's going to help?”

“He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me and Tyrion knew it.”

“The Imp cares more about stopping the war than he does for your pretty head.”

“And you care more for a fat purse than either.” It hurt to say it and the sting in her throat made her swallow thickly. She couldn't fathom why she cared so much, not when she had known how faithful a dog Sandor was to so horrible a boy as Joffrey.

“Gold buys a dog a good lot of drinking,” Sandor said after a long silence. “The kind of honor you get slippery for killed your wolf and landed your father’s head on a pike. Fuck honor and fuck politics.”

“If you don't believe in honor or politics, why blindly do what Joffrey asks?” Sansa sat up straighter, her hands slipping to Sandor’s hips. Though he guarded his feelings well, she wished she could look upon his face. The writhing scars and the way they pulled and stretched his features didn't trouble her anymore.

Sandor laughed so quietly she felt it more than she heard it. “Every man has his masters. Mine turned out to have been unlucky enough to be crowned as king.”

As they rode on Sansa tried desperately to think of the right words to make him turn course. Once upon a time she believed the master of all men to be love, pure and chivalrous, the sort of which she’d longed for. She feared now that it was money, and she had none with which to bribe the Hound. Certainly nothing to match what Tyrion had promised. She had only herself to promise, and if he truly wanted her, he could have had her. If not here, than many times before at King's Landing.

Morning passed to mid-day and when they stopped so she could relieve herself, Sansa burned with humiliation that Sandor insisted on putting her on a leash like he’d done with Arya. By his admission he was the dog, not her, but it was better she supposed than to have him stand close.

Making herself decent, she came out from behind the tree. The rope dragged along the ground, heavy as a chain. Sandor waited beside the huge dark shadow of his warhorse, indifferent to her misery. Had he always been so callous? Had his rare moments of kindness been truly kind? Sansa’s frustration built like snowfall, fresh drifts piling upon old and growing into something weighty and harsh that she could no longer bear. Colour rushed to her face, blotchy like it did when she cried so hard her lungs ached.

“Don’t take me back there,” she shouted.

The wind forced Sandor’s long hair back, and he moved automatically to turn his head aside and shield the ruin of his face from sight. Mid-way he paused and instead looked on her with all the fierce horror of his scars bared.

“But if you do and the king orders me to death, I would have you tell me if you would swing the blade. Dogs don't lie. Tell me the truth.”

She had asked wishing to know if would he do the deed as a favor to her, as even if she'd dreamed up foolish things about him, she’d rather him claim her head than someone like Ser Boros or Ser Meryn, but in his face Sansa read hesitation that said he took the question plainly. A fragile hope unfurled in Sansa's heart like a blade of springtime grass struggling against frozen earth.

“Please, Sandor. Please take me anywhere but back to Joffrey. He doesn’t deserve a dog so faithful as you.”

Sandor approached her, filling her field of vision. His cloak, stained by travel, lay over his arm. He did not shake it out and curl her in it like he had in the night, but rather thrust it into her hands. She clutched its warmth so hard her knuckles hurt. In the dull gleam of his pitted armor, her reflection wavered ghostlike.

She shivered when his knuckles brushed her neck. He lifted the thin noose over her head and let it fall to the ground. For a moment, his hands hovered near her shoulders. “And who does?“ he asked, taking a step back.

Sansa’s throat closed around the word “me” and she stammered out Robb’s name instead. “I heard Tyrion say they’re calling my brother the King in the North,” she said. Her pulse hammered feverishly in her neck and she still felt the echoing promise of Sandor’s touch.

“One boy or another, one king or another. Little difference between the two.”

Not true, Sansa wanted to protest. Robb wasn't cruel. He could be stubborn at times, nearly as stubborn as Arya, but never vicious. He’d be a wise king, good to his people as their father had been. Her chest felt bound in steel as she faced the reality that none of that would matter to Sandor. He hadn't flinched in the service of a cruel king, why would he serve a king he didn't even know?

“Me then,” she found the will to say. "I do." Her breath stopped in her chest that she would dare to be so bold. Septa Mordane would be horrified, and Sansa repeatedly told herself that if she didn’t want her head beside the Septa’s, this was her only chance. If Sandor wouldn't take her to her brother, he would take her back to Joffrey. He'd march her to the wrong king and—Sansa's thoughts on the fate that awaited her ran together like streams became a river, and in the rushing white noise she heard Tyrion's voice repeat once more the bargain he had struck.

Choking on her own breath, Sansa dropped the cloak and threw herself at Sandor. Her hands spread to clutch at his arms, and he held her stiffly as if she'd gone mad. She felt mad as she slid her hands up to frame his face, the scratch of his cheeks rough beneath her palms. “I lost my wolf. I would have a dog instead,” she said, her voice steady. A quiver seized her belly when his surprise showed plainly for a heartbeat. “Tyrion Lannister promised you gold to return me safe to my king. He didn’t say that it must be Joffrey. The King in the North is _my_ king, Sandor.”

Whether it was her words or the promise of Tyrion’s gold, Sandor's breath had quickened to match her own. At the moment she didn't care, for she knew their path would turn north. She felt an honest smile creep onto her face and slid her fingertips down to the hinge of Sandor's jaw.

He seized her shoulders and her smile crumbled, but he dipped his head and put his mouth to hers. It was not a sweet kiss as Joffrey's had been and she opened to it, glad to taste what she was certain was not a lie. He broke away just as Sansa began to ache for more and disentangled himself from her arms. “North it is,” he said, as if the choice to turn coat was as easily made as the throw of dice.

“As fast as we can fly,” Sansa agreed.

Sandor leaned down, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her again or go to one knee. Instead he simply crouched to retrieve his cloak. He pressed it into her hands and searched her face. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him and he left her to wrap herself in the cloak. “The road is dull and we’ve a long way to go,” he said, fetching his horse and swinging into the saddle. “Stay warm so you can sing for me.”

"I shall. I promise," Sansa said, and took his offered hand.


End file.
